


all the broken hearts that hang around here

by easystreets



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Fist Fights, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 12:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29999619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easystreets/pseuds/easystreets
Summary: Frank doesn't drink. It's not an issue or anything, he's not one of those guys who gets sloppy when he's drunk or overdoes it--that would be Gerard. He just doesn't like drinking, doesn't like the way the memories fall apart and the way Gerard slumps on his sore shoulders at parties, like a corpse.He likes to fight, though, lives for sticky wrists and bruised knuckles that sting for days later. He can't feel the burn as well, can't pinpoint the exact moment the air gets knocked out of his lungs if he's not sober, so he refuses the beers and lets the shards of amber glass fly at his skin instead. He gets high on adrenaline, high on the hurt that radiates through him and pinches and pulls at different parts of his body like he's one of those marionette dolls, getting pulled in a dozen of different directions of pain. So he doesn't drink, and it's not a problem because he can still DD with a bloody nose and fingers crooked unnaturally.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Kudos: 16





	all the broken hearts that hang around here

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for drinking, fighting, and otherwise shitty coping mechanisms. thanks for reading this little brain worm! title is from mariana's trench (decided to break it)

Frank doesn't drink. It's not an issue or anything, he's not one of those guys who gets sloppy when he's drunk or overdoes it--that would be Gerard. He just doesn't like drinking, doesn't like the way the memories fall apart and the way Gerard slumps on his sore shoulders at parties, like a corpse.

He likes to fight, though, lives for sticky wrists and bruised knuckles that sting for days later. He can't feel the burn as well, can't pinpoint the exact moment the air gets knocked out of his lungs if he's not sober, so he refuses the beers and lets the shards of amber glass fly at his skin instead. He gets high on adrenaline, high on the hurt that radiates through him and pinches and pulls at different parts of his body like he's one of those marionette dolls, getting pulled in a dozen of different directions of pain. So he doesn't drink, and it's not a problem because he can still DD with a bloody nose and fingers crooked unnaturally.

Tonight, he scans the room for someone who looks like a good fight. There's not really anyone here that's doing anything other than half-heartedly watching the Lynch movie someone put on, but Mikey is--bingo-- being felt up by some guy in the doorway.

"Is this guy bothering you, Mikey?" Frank says, teeth bared. He used to have perfect teeth that'd make a dentist cry; now he has a row of cracked gravestones.

Mikey rolls his eyes. His skin is so unblemished, so unbruised. Frank wonders how you can live like that.

"I'm not," the guy says, a little rough sounding. Good. Frank's nerves have been all over the place, the last thing he wants to do is get into a fight with a guy who's too scared to really give him something back.

"Huh?" Frank says to the guy, pushing at his chest. "I asked Mikey, you fuck."

"Ignore him," Mikey says, frowning at the Solo cup of water in Frank's hand. "He's drunk."

"Am not," Frank spits. "Answer the question."

"Go bother Gerard," Mikey says. "Go take a walk with Gerard." It's actually not a bad idea. But Frank wants this guy to know that Mikeyway isn't to be fucked with, so when he backs away, he stomps hard on his toes.

It doesn't make him feel any better. Gerard's in the kitchen when Frank finds him, but he follows him wordlessly to the backyard when Frank pulls at his hand. It's really more of a mudpit than anything, dark and full of wire fencing that hasn't even been strung up yet, just tossed into the yard. There's trees looming above them, too, like in a cheap horror movie.

"What," Gerard says. His eyes are weirdly bright in the dark.

"Hit me," Frank says, and it's a fucking accident, he doesn't mean it, because he doesn't fight with his friends, that's not something he does, but he stares expectantly at Gerard anyways. He wants this. He needs this.

"Are you sure?" Gerard says. He doesn't sound too drunk, just his baseline normal. Good. Frank wants a few solid punches, whatever Gerard can give.

"Hit me and I'll hit you back," Frank says, and it's like a livewire's running through his body. "Hit me as hard as you want. Fuck, I bet you've never even been in a fistfight."

Gerard looks down at his hands cautiously. "I mean, Mikey and I don't fight like that. I've never punched someone like, for _real_."

"Not even when you got robbed?" Gerard sighs a little, steals a sip from Frank's water.

"No, I mean--"

"Hit me." Frank says. "Pretend I'm him." His voice is so scratchy in the cold night. It almost hurts to speak. "Pretend I'm everything you hate."

"Frankie, you're my _friend_."

"I want you to," Frank says, going for the big guns, "because I don't think you can."

"What the fuck, little shit, I so could," Gerard frowns, and then Frank can't take it anymore, and they're both tumbling off the deck stairs and into the muddy grass below. Gerard just kind of lies there taking it, so Frank pulls his hair roughly.

"I don't want to hurt you," Gerard explains dumbly, rubbing at his scalp.

"I need you to hurt me," Frank explains, slightly winded from how hard he threw both of them onto the grass. "It's like, you have your art, right, and that untangles all the bad shit in your brain? Well, I have fighting. And I'm going fucking crazy, I waited all week to get a few good fucking swings in and nobody will give me anything, but I need this. I need it, Gerard."

Gerard's silent for a moment, and the coherent part of Frank's mind thinks that he might have actually fucked things up by saying that. He's never told anybody why he fights before. Then Gerard's wrist swings experimentally into the flesh of Frank's stomach, and it's not exactly powerful, but he can feel the air come fast up into his lungs, and he lies for a moment, just feeling, before he shoves Gerard hard onto his back.

"Not enough," Frank says. Gerard slaps him in the face, kind of girlishly, but he's wearing rings and so his lip tears a little, scabs reopening and his lip ring rocking painfully.

"Fuck," Gerard gasps when Frank's blood dribbles onto his face, just a drop into his mouth, "Frankie, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Shut up," Frank says, and then kisses him, since that'll probably do the job. He collapses onto Gerard and waits until Gee rolls him over to take a breath. Gerard listens this time, rails at his chest with balled-up fists.

"You'll break your thumb like that," Frank warns, laying in the disgusting shitty backyard like he's on a beach towel at the pool or something.

"Good," Gerard hisses. Frank pushes him, just to watch as he lilts backwards before catching his balance, watch as his face sharpens with confidence and he tugs Frank's hair to pull him up.

"Fuck fuck fuck," Frank says, and this is exactly what he needed. Gerard shoves him up against the rough bark of a giant tree, and Frank can feel the blood draw through his thin t-shirt. Gerard doesn't really know how to fight, but at least he fucking tries; his nails scratch roughly against Frank's bare arms, and he knocks their bodies together than Frank would have expected from him, leaning in to bite at his ear or his lip.

"You're fucking insane," Gerard says. He's breathing so hard it almost sounds like he's crying.

"I know," Frank says, licking his lips. "Make me feel it."

Gerard's fist meets his ribs and everything goes white. He's so sure he's going to puke that he crumples down a little, and clumsily plants his hands on the ground, gasping for breath. It's the best he's felt in months, and he screws his eyes shut, just taking it in, absorbing the moment.

"Frankie," Gerard's saying, when he wakes up from the haze. "Fuck, are you okay?"

His eyes are wide and gently concerned, and Frank can't help but think with a bit of pride: you did this, I made you do this, you'd only do this for me.

"'M great," Frank says. "Thank you." He stumbles getting up, and Gerard wraps an arm tight around his shoulders. It hurts a little, but Frank doesn't complain. They go crash on an empty bed, and Gerard wipes the blood from Frank's lips gently, licks it off with his tongue in the dim room.

"I don't know why," Gerard mutters. "But if it makes you better..?"

"It just makes everything stop," Frank says. "It just-- it hurts, and then there's nothing."

Gerard's quiet, and then he says, "that's fucked." Frank kind of has to agree; he kisses him instead and tastes booze and blood.

**Author's Note:**

> if you have thoughts, pls drop a comment! u can also find me on tumblr at easystreetsz


End file.
